


Futhark

by Halja



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Aesir-Vanir War, Also other Characters & Pairings will be added as it goes on, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Icelandic Rune Poem, Kidnapping, M/M, Missing Moments, Most Unimaginative Title Ever, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Lokasenna, Prophecy, Rescue, Sif is a Mama Bear, Sleipnir is getting real tired of ur shit Odin, Thor is a Good Dad, vague references to Balder's death, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of random short fics randomly inspired by the Icelandic Rune Poem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fé

 

 

 

 

 

Source of discord among kinsmen  
and fire of the sea  
and path of the serpent.

 

 

 

 

She comes to Asgard dressed in silks and furs and secrets, shrouded in the darkness of night and the glint of gold. There are rings tinkling on her fingers, amber gleams around her slender neck.

They don’t want her here, that much is clear - they don’t seem to like foreigners, these newborn gods. Yet their walls are weak, and so are their hearts, ablaze with curiosity and the need to understand, to _own._ She revels in their greed and their desire, feels warm and content playing with their need, but it is not the men of the Aesir that interest her. 

She slips inside their houses quietly, greets their wives and daughters with a smile like a blade or perhaps a silver necklace, bright and dangerous and beautiful. They are drawn to her, of course, like birds taking flight to find the lands were the Sun burns brighter and hotter, like moths dancing around candlelight. They don’t know their own strength yet, these young goddesses full of promise and hope, and so they search for hers, drink her clever words of fire and light like the clear water at Yggdrasil’s roots, long for her hard gaze to measure them and find them worthy. 

That’s the fun part, as she tells Freya. Freya is amused, and more than a bit intrigued, just as she thought she would be, but behind all of this her eyes are like a clouded sky.

\- They will say you made them greedy, and evil - she says, long fingers and long nails stroking her tight lightly. She smiles, her teeth white and her lips as red as freshly spilled blood: - And lustful. -

Gullveig grins as Freya’s caresses reach higher on her naked flesh, slowly and teasingly, and shivers under her warm touch. - That I did, and I won’t ever regret it. -

\- When the war starts … - says Freya again, and suddenly her delicate pale hand stills on her skin, drawing a disappointed growl from her mouth: - They will say it was _you_ who started it. You know them as well as I do. -

But Gullveig just laughs, because she has _seen_ the war. She has seen fire, and dark blood splattered on the dusty ground - their enemies’, her tribe’s - and biting iron and harsher magic. She has seen herself, and what will come after her.

\- I am good as a spy, and you know it well. I’ll take what risks I have to - she says, and then she covers Freya’s hand with her own, guiding it up again. - But I’ll leave the war to you, and all that comes after it. It fits you better, I think - she adds, looking her in the eye and smiling.

That night, they don’t talk any longer. She closes her eyes and accepts Freya’s kisses and her touch, hard and bruising and desperate, yet sometimes kind - tender, even. She opens her mouth to moan and gasp and scream, and she doesn’t hold back.

That night, Gullveig dreams of flames licking at her skin, as hot and greedy as Freya’s lovely hands, and she feels happy.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Úr

 

 

 

Lamentation of the clouds  
and ruin of the hay-harvest  
and abomination of the shepherd.

 

 

 

 

The rain is beating hard on the roof tonight. Thunder booms far away behind the walls, hard and sudden like a whip on a slave’s back, like the last strike against a hated enemy. Inside the hall, Sif thinks - it is not the first time, nor will it be the last - that her husband has never been one for subtlety.

Of course, Thor is not stupid, she knows this better than anybody else. But he can be rash, and brutal, and he’d rather leave complicated plans and clever tricks to those who are more cunning than he is. He prefers acting to thinking, Thor, and, just like a storm, he can’t be stopped. When he makes a decision, few people are skilled enough to make him change his mind - she prides herself on being one of these lucky few.

_ Thor, _ Sif thinks while combing her golden hair, running nimble finger through cool smooth thread she’ll never really get used to, _knows what he’s doing._

And even when he doesn’t, he always makes it through anyway - for his people, for his friends, for his family. For the wife he always leaves home waiting, for the beloved children he had without her and the beloved child she had without him. For the daughter they had together - bright and brave like her father, blinding in the gleam of her armour and the burning heat of her smile, and so skilled in making her mother’s throat close and her heart weight like a stone in her chest by simply not being _there_ with her.

_ Thrud, _ Sif thinks, _is a great warrior. She can defend herself with her own hands. She’d be so offended, if she thought I didn’t know it._

Outside, furious rain beats harder on the walls, flows thicker and faster until she can picture in her mind a great, solid wall of icy water falling from an iron-coloured sky and clouds like dark, heavy smoke. She clenches her fingers in her hair, grips it tight though she can barely feel it. 

Thor _knows_ what he’s doing, she tells herself again. And Thrud is just like her father in so many ways, so much that perhaps she’s already saved herself. They’re her fierce warriors, those two, and not once have they let her down.

She won’t lose any of them, and she certainly _isn’t_ going to lose them both. It’s a knowledge she’s nurtured - had to learn to nurture - in the bottom of her heart. She relaxes her grip on her hair and attempts an uncertain smile.

She can still hear the rain and the thunder, and all the rage Thor - her hot-headed, impulsive, loyal, _wonderful_ Thor - is feeling right now. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, and all she sees is fleeting images of a red-headed child with a smile brighter then Sól’s chariot resting in her mother’s arms, of a confident woman with a spear like lightning laughing gleefully and basking in her father’s pride on the battlefield. 

Sif’s hands go still and she opens her eyes. She will _not_ lose them - that is her decision. And if anyone tries to go against her on this, well - she is not so different from her daughter and her husband, in the end.

_ She  _ will show them the real storm, if need be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one is _very_ headcanon-y. Just bear with me, okay?
> 
> Thrud's name literaly means "strenght", or something like it. Her name can be found in kennings for chieftains, and she may or may not be a Valkyrie. That's why I see her as warrior, or at least a tough chick who really takes after her dad.
> 
> Thrud was apparently engaged against her's or her father's will to Alviss, and Hrungnir is also called "thief of Thrud". In addition, Thor is ”he who longs fiercely for Thrud", where I choose to interpret the "long fiercely" part as "really wants to get her the fuck away from her creepy suitors" rathen than "squicky incestuous lust". So, yeah, I headcanon Thrud as having a bit of an Unwanted Harem. Heh. I should probably write something where she kicks a creepy guy's ass to Hel and back someday (I probably will).
> 
> Who is whose kid seems to be a confusing topic in Thor's family. Magni is Thor and Jarnsaxa's son and Ullr is Sif's son with some other dude, but I've seen Thrud and Modi either referred to as Jarnsaxa's or Sif's children with Thor, and I don't think the lore is clearer on the subject. Personally, I see Thor and Sif as Thrud's parents and Thor and Jarnsaxa as Modi's.


	3. Þurs

 

 

 

 

Torture of women  
and cliff-dweller  
and husband of a giantess.

 

 

 

 

All he sees is red. Red all around him, red covering the bare earth for miles on end, red still flowing like a river even after all this time - its currents fast and full of debris, its roar like that of a hungry beast waiting to devour him.

\- It’s the end - says Bergelmir to his wife. And it truly is, or at least it looks enough like it. Funny, how it doesn’t make him go blind with rage anymore, how it doesn’t even _hurt_ anymore. Maybe they’ll keep floating, maybe one day they’ll sink - either way, it’s the end, and they can do nothing about it.

His wife turns to look at him. There are rust-coloured splotches in her hair, and her face is pale and gaunt, but her eyes are ablaze - hunger o fever or something else entirely, he can’t tell, doesn’t care to tell. - It is not - she says, grim and determined.

Bergelmir just shakes his head and doesn’t answer. - It is _not -_ repeats his wife, looking him dead in the eye: - This is the _beginning,_ I tell you, son of Thrudgelmir drowned-in-blood. - 

He just laughs at _that._ There’s no land, and there’s no cattle, not anymore. Their own house is lost, swallowed by the flood a long time ago. They have nothing, and they won’t survive. - What do titles and kin matter, now? - he asks her.

\- You will live, heir to Aurgelmir murdered-in-treachery, and so will I - answers his wife simply, and sounds and looks as if she truly believes it: - So will our sons and our daughters. And a time will come, when our kin will come for Odin’s, for the people of the three murderers in their golden halls. -

She turns away, then, and Bergelmir knows that she won’t speak anymore, not today.

For a moment, he almost believes her - for a moment, he almost _hopes._ Almost.

Then, he looks around once more.

All he sees is red.

 

 

 

 


	4. Óss

[](https://archiveofourown.org/works/779425)

 

 

 

Aged Gautr  
and prince of Ásgarðr  
and lord of Vallhalla.

 

 

 

 

He’s always been a wanderer, her husband. A wanderer is all he will always be, really.

Frigg doesn’t need to peer into the interwoven threads and loose strands of fate and fortune to be able to guess this one: her eyes are good enough to see it, her mind sharp enough to understand it. She looks at him, Lord of his own hall and Commander of his people, and she knows he won’t stay, not for long.

Sometimes she watches him sitting in his hall, his eye keen and triumphant and burning like a spark under the ashes as he surveys his glorious warriors feasting on his meat and his ale. Often, he talks with some of the new recruits, freshly-dead chieftains and heroes still stained with blood, and listens to their tales of the mortals and of their world. She knows that, as he listens, he wonders.

Sometimes she watches him while he’s sitting in council with them all, his ravens perched on his shoulders and cawing softly in his ear, black eyes glittering, fluttering black feathers carrying dark stories to him. She knows that, later, she will find him alone on his throne. Both his eyelids will be lowered as his mind flies away with no need for wings.

Tales and stories and news - corpses and wings, thrones and visions, mead and wells and severed heads and whatever he will come up with next time - will never be enough for him. Neither will golden halls and lofty names, bright honour and flowing ale and rich feasts, not even a wife and children and a safe home.

She always knows when he is about to leave again, the signs are so very clear. And yet, she isn’t sad when she smiles and waves her husband goodbye - greets the poor wanderer he chooses to be, one-eyed and old, cloaked in raggedy cloth and hunched over a gnarled cane.

Frigg knows that, in the end, Odin will always come back to her. 

 

 

 


	5. Reið

 

 

 

Joy of the horsemen  
and speedy journey  
and toil of the steed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ Slippery,  _ they call him. The one who can ride in any land, any world, and rides even through sea and sky, slides effortlessly through wave and air and storm. Some of them boast, others - he likes these ones better, he admits readily \- praise and cheer. 

The one who can ride to Hel, and then safely bring you back - it is few who murmur this one. _Northwards and downwards, following the roaring river to its end._ He is not too fond of those rides, himself. He barely knows his half-sister, and though he _is_ safe to come and go as he pleases from her realm, he doesn’t really care to visit her. He much prefers wide blue skies and green fields of grass to the unending gloom and icy cold of the home of the dead. 

His master, alas, is both one who likes to boast - that does get him into trouble, Gullfaxi and he know it all it too well - and also one who cares too much for those journeys to the land where nobody should ever want to go. He is always searching for something, it seems. A seeress and a prophecy, unattainable knowledge he wishes to somehow attain, and generally one or two pointless quests that will keep them occupied far longer than the nine days the ride actually requires. Once, he even gives him to another man and sends him down to look for a son - that’s the most senseless search so far, and of course his sister allows him to go back with only one rider.

But no-one ever asks him what he thinks of his master, of the man his father-and-mother gave him to so long ago he can barely remember it. And really, why should they? 

He is just the horse: he’s good enough to go just about everywhere - up and down, away and beyond, even northwards and downwards - but he’ll never get to decide where the ride will take him. He can pass through the storm and leave unscathed, run through the deep dark water without any fear of drowning, but he will never be able to shake that finely wrought saddle off his back.

His master, unaware of all of this, just smiles, and boasts, and starts planning yet another foolish errand for him.

 

 

 


	6. Kaun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set somewhere in between the end of Lokasenna and Loki's binding.

 

 

 

 

 

Disease fatal to children  
and painful spot  
and abode of mortification.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She kisses their heads, marking her love with her lips on fresh pale brows, murmuring counter-spells and singing protections into soft hair - always so unruly and wild, she thinks, and then she chases these thoughts away because of the memories they inevitably lead to.

They have nowhere to go - no one will take them in, and she won’t beg for help that won’t come. So they stay. 

Even if they run, they will never be fast enough. Even if they hide, they will still be found. The only thing they can _do_ is stay here, and resist - but even if they resist - __

_ So they stay. _

She shuts the door hard, locks it and bars it, then sprinkles herbs and salt on the threshold, splatters runes red with blood on hard wood. Her sons help her, but more then anything they watch her from a distance, eyes wide and bright and far too old for their young faces, hands shaking lightly as they pass her the items she needs. 

They should have taught them more and they should have taught them better, she realises, and shakes her head. Both of them should have, though of course the skilled one was always him and not her.

But she does appreciate the help, of course. She makes sure to tell them, keeping her voice firm and quiet and reassuring, and then she falls silent again.

She kisses them both again when she’s finished. She will kiss them so many times more when this is all over, she tells herself, and something in her breast clenches hard until it hurts too much to bear. She still manages a smile as she tells her children that she will fight for them.

\- Where is father? \- Nari asks suddenly, and he sounds like he’s trying so hard not to let his voice tremble. Unshed tears gleam in the corners of his eyes, blue-and-grey like her own, and she wants so much to wipe them away.

\- What has father _done?_ \- asks Vali, and he’s not crying. His green eyes are hot and piercing and uncomfortably familiar. It barely sounds like a question. 

She doesn’t answer to either of them, and so they don’t talk anymore. She can almost _see_ all the words burning on her sons’ lips, though, written on their flesh in letters so bright they’re blinding. They blaze like the unspoken name carved on her heart, the one corroding her flesh and muscle like poison, one drop at a time.

She doesn’t want to lie to Nari and Vali, because her sons have become so good - _too_ _good_ \- at spotting lies over the years. So she just holds them quietly, kisses them again, and lets them kiss her back.

 

 

 

 


End file.
